


the road and the knower of roads

by myownremedy



Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Genderswap, Lesbian Character of Color, Mixed Media, Oral Sex, Poetry, cisgirl!Divya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:19:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myownremedy/pseuds/myownremedy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Divya breezes into Erica’s life, saves her from Mark Zuckerberg’s terrible pick up lines, listens to Erica read poetry and makes Erica realize what’s truly in her heart.</p><p>Written for the TSN Rarepair Fest!</p>
            </blockquote>





	the road and the knower of roads

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: erotic poetry, explicit sex, mentions of incest in poetry, a brief racist encounter.  
> Title from Rumi's poem of the same name.  
> Disclaimer: y'all gay, y'all fictional, y'all way too cute. Don't google yourselves. no copyright infringement was intended.  
> edit (4-13-15): this is a transformative work. I make no money off of it. I do not own what inspired this work (The Social Network), but I do own this work itself and hold full copyright over it. Thank you.
> 
> Thank you Mel, Rai, Aly and Annie for the beta’ing. I am lost without you. Five hundred thanks for Shan for getting me started ;3 Additional thanks to Annie for all of the Bostonian knowledge! Thank you Aly and Jess for the fucking AMAZING art. Thank you all my tumblr followers for cheering me on and putting up with me, and thank you Des_pudels_kern for organizing this rarepair fest!  
> [ Find the art here!"](http://tsnrarepairfest.livejournal.com/3620.html)

_“Find someone who will tremble for your touch, someone whose fingers are a poem.”_

— Janet Fitch

 

The day Erica meets Divya Narendra is a cold one in September.

 In fact, it’s not a day at all, but an evening spent at the bar of the Thirsty Scholar, staring at her beer and contemplating ordering raw oysters. The girl next to her seems to be having the same struggle – she’s tapping the picture of the mussels with one slim finger, but Erica notices she keeps glancing at the oyster special.

She remembers her mom’s voice, warm and soothing on the phone – _honey, get yourself something nice to eat today, OK? The first day of classes is always the worst –_ and signals the bartender. Maybe she’ll share with the girl.

“Finally giving in?” Seamus asks, and his smile grows when Erica nods and props her face up with a small hand. “Hey,” he says, soothing even though she’s seen him knock two guys out with his bare hands – bar fights are uncommon, but they still happen – “the first day of classes are always the worst.”

“People keep saying that,” Erica mutters. “I’m a junior. You think I’d be prepared by now.”

“Naw, you just got back from summer. You weren’t expecting the drudgery of college life.” Chuckling, he wanders off to get her oysters and Erica rests her chin in her palm, staring at nothing until he reappears with them, the light catching on the inside of the shells.

Erica has only just taken a bite when a male voice says, in a tone that’s half bored and half determined, “Did you know that oysters are an aphrodisiac?”

Erica does _not_ choke; she turns, eyebrows raised, to see a boy with curly hair and sharp cheekbones looking at her, his hands in his hoodie pockets.

“Excuse me?”

“Oysters. They’re aphrodisiacs.” He pauses. “You do know what an aphrodisiac is, right?”

Erica’s brain takes a few moments to process the blank way he says this, the way he’s being patronizing without meaning to, and she opens her mouth, debating whether to mentally castrate him or just get rid of him, when the girl next to her turns around and speaks.

“That’s the worst pick up line I’ve ever heard,” and Erica feels a smile tug the corner of her mouth.

The boy looks at the other girl, eyebrows knitting together in a frown.

“You go to Harvard?” The other girl continues, gesturing at his Harvard hoodie. “You got into Harvard and you seriously can’t come up with a better line?”

The boy’s frown deepens. “How is that related?”

“Oh, go away, boy,” the girl says. Erica has never perfected the sneer that the girl has, the look of _I’m-so-unimpressed-that-it’s-becoming-disdain,_ that clearly demonstratesthe disbelief that someone this stupid is in front of her and is breathing, but the other girl has it in full force, and the boy retreats.

“Thanks,” Erica says after a minute. “I – it’s the first day of classes and –”

“– and that line was so stupid that it took away your ability to speak for a few minutes?”  The girl supplies, and laughs. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Do you want some of my oysters?” Erica asks without thinking. The other girl tilts her head, full lips curving in a small smile, and she flushes. “I mean – I saw you debating what to order.”

“Thanks,” the girl says after a minute, and the smile has become full-blown. Erica looks down at the oysters and then back at the girl, unsure what to say next.  
“I’m Erica,” Erica holds out her hand and the other girl takes it, her hand slim and golden brown.

“Divya. Divya Narendra.”

“Nice to meet you.” Erica says. Divya’s hand is very, very warm. She doesn’t let go until Divya does, and even then Divya’s warmth lingers on her skin.

“So,” Divya says after she finishes her first oyster, licking her lips with obvious delight, “are you trying to pick me up?”

She’s joking, she has to be – Erica looks at her with wide eyes and Divya throws back her head and laughs so hard that Erica has to join in.

“It was a _joke_ ,” Divya explains through her giggles.

“I know,” Erica tells her. “I was just trying to figure out if this oyster thing was gonna work or not.”

That makes Divya laughs even harder and Erica smiles despite herself, pleased that she said the right thing, pleased that they’re trading banter so naturally.

“Oh honey,” Divya says after she finishes laughing, and her hand is on Erica’s arm, and Erica leans towards her, still smiling to herself. “You’re cute.”

It sounds like a compliment, like a good thing, and Erica doesn’t notice when Divya squeezes her arm before getting up from her seat.

“I gotta go – early class tomorrow,” but she’s still smiling, and Erica wonders if this is where they talk about school or exchange numbers, but Divya just puts on her coat and waves. “I’ll see you around, Erica.”

“Bye!” She watches Divya walk away, arm still warm from Divya’s touch.

 

*

 

Fall bleeds slowly into winter; one day there’s sunshine, and the next there’s frost, and then it’s snowing hard enough that no one wants to go to class. Erica goes anyway, because she’s motivated, because she doesn’t like to miss class, and because everyone was right: the first day was the worst.

She is not thinking of Divya, or the boy that hit on her, when she wanders into the Harvard Library: she has an assignment on feminist poets in the second wave of feminism and Mugar, BU’s librarian, had sent her to Harvard instead of making her wait for books to ship.

Erica is just opening up a text of _Stealing the Language_ when a familiar voice drawls, “Come here often?”

She can hear the grin in Divya’s voice, can almost feel it, and Erica looks up, feeling her own mouth curve into a smile.

“You go to Harvard. Is that the best line you could come up with?”

She wonders if Divya will remember, or if she will be offended: Divya just grins wider and struts over to Erica’s table.

“It got your attention, didn’t it?” She says, low and throaty, and then laughs. Erica laughs with her, eyes on the line of Divya’s throat.

“Do you go here too?” Divya asks after a moment, taking in the pile of books on Erica’s table. “As a….lit major?”

“No,” then, “Yes.”

“Which is it?” Divya demands, but her red mouth is curved in a smile again and Erica stamps down on her heart, which is somehow in her throat.

“I _am_ a lit major. Well, lit with an emphasis on poetry and women’s studies minor. But I go to BU.”

Divya is shaking her head, and Erica’s heart sinks, but then: “I don’t know how you can study poetry and understand it. None of it makes sense.”

“You just haven’t read the right poetry,” Erica retorts, and she pushes a book of Anne Sexton towards Divya, heart leaping like a bird when their fingers brush.

Divya shrugs. “I’ll stick with math, thanks.”

“ _Math?_ ” Erica demands, and her shock must show on her face because a smile pulls on Divya’s mouth. “You think _math_ makes more sense than poetry?”

“So much that I’m majoring in it,” Divya says, almost smug, and Erica shakes her head. “Applied mathematics major, and I got a perfect score on the math section of the SAT to boot.”

“I’ll pray for you,” Erica says without thinking, and is surprised when Divya puts a hand on her arm and squeezes affectionately.

“You do that, poetry girl.” She flicks through Anne Sexton’s _Transformations_ and Erica watches her, waiting for Divya to react.

“Don’t you have homework to do?” Divya asks without looking up, but it’s not hostile – it’s teasing, and it’s letting Erica know that she’s been caught. Erica flushes but doesn’t look away.

“It’s really important I find you a poem you like,” Erica tells her, and her cheeks feel even hotter.

Divya looks up at her and raises an eyebrow, rubbing a finger on the first line of _Briar Rose_.

“Maybe you should write me one,” she suggests, and then is looking at the poem again, brows furrowing as she reads it.

Erica doesn’t say anything: she presses her lips together and carefully sets her pen down, unsure what to say, what to do, how to breathe.

“This is terrible,” Divya exclaims, distracting her. “The point of Sleeping Beauty is incest?”

“It’s revisionist myth,” Erica says. Divya’s dismay, no, her outrage, is strangely endearing. “It’s a really important movement in women’s poetry.”

“I don’t like it,” and Erica could have guessed that, but she grins at Divya all the same, pulling Anne Sexton out from her fingertips and offering her a volume of Sylvia Plath.

“No,” Divya says immediately. “Too depressing.”

“You haven’t even opened it!” Erica tells her, but Divya is shaking her head, so Erica flips open a book of Adrienne Rich to _the floating poem, unnumbered._

“Here,” she says. “Just listen.”

 

 

Divya’s face is unreadable when Erica looks up from the poem, and Erica can feel how red her cheeks are, but she just smiles at Divya, tries to play it cool and wonders if Divya’s heart is also racing.

Why did it have to be a _sex_ poem?

“Wow,” Divya says finally, and her eyes are hooded, voice husky. “That was…very erotic.”

“Erotic poetry is also a very important movement in women’s poetry,” Erica says after swallowing, her mouth dry. “It’s, um…”

“About reclaiming sexuality?” Divya prompts, and Erica nods.

 “I’ve always thought that was very important,” Divya says, tracing a design on the top of the table. “Almost…essential.”

“Ah,” Erica manages. “Me…me too.”

The smile Divya gives her is not at all sweet, but something full of heat and forbidden fruit, and Erica just gazes back.

“Have fun with your poetry,” Divya says finally. “I have to study math.”

“See you around,” Erica manages, and Divya flashes her another smile, this one bright and mysterious.

“Count on it,” she says, and Erica watches her walk away without really understanding what had just happened.

 

*

The next time Erica is in the library, Divya finds her again, but doesn’t say anything, just sits next to Erica and opens up her math book – something about abstract algebra – and starts punching numbers into her calculator, so Erica keeps working, noting various poems and scrawling notes about poetic analysis in her notebook.

“Do you write poetry, or do you just study it?” Divya asks after a while, and Erica blinks at her, half immersed in Catherine Harnett Shaw and half hyperaware of Divya’s eyes on her.

“Mmm?”she asks, to buy time, and Divya repeats the question, sounding half amused and half impatient.

“Oh.” Erica says. “I write poetry.”

Divya is still watching her, and Erica looks away, looks back at her book, flushing. “It’s – my poetry isn’t very good.”

“Aren’t all poets required to say that by law or something?” and at that Erica smiles, and shakes her head.

“So you don’t want to be a poet professionally?” Divya isn’t going to let this go to Erica shuts her book with a sigh.

“No, god no. That’s impossible. I’d starve. I’ll probably end up teaching poetry or women’s studies or both, if I continue and get my MFA.”

“MFA?”

“Masters of Fine Arts.”

“Ah.” Divya contemplates this and Erica watches her, notes that Divya’s hair is braided back today and then wonders why that’s important, wonders why she never does anything with her hair besides through it in a ponytail or brush it out of her face impatiently.

“What about you? Are you going to teach mathematics?”

Divya shakes her head. “I’m going into business.”

Erica tilts her head to the side, tries to imagine Divya as the head of a firm or something and thinks the image could fit, maybe.

“Is that what you want?” Erica’s genuinely curious, and Divya gives her a long look before nodding.

“I’m good at it,” she says, like it’s the same thing, and Erica doesn’t say anything. “In fact,” continues Divya, looking up and waving at someone, “here come my business partners right now.”

Erica twists around to find two enormous blond men – two men who look like Greek Gods – walking towards Divya, both smiling.

“Cam, Tyler!” Divya exclaims. “You’re in the library?”

“We don’t spend all of our time rowing,” one of them says and Divya grins. Erica wonders if she should leave, if they will leave, but then Divya motions to her.

“This is Erica. She’s a friend of mine.”

_Oh._

“Nice to meet you,” Erica says, and the boys – twins – smile at her.

“I’m Cameron, and this is Tyler,” says one of them, but names don’t help and Erica just nods at them, hopes she will never be expected to tell them apart.

Divya chats with them for a bit and Erica returns to reading, but then they are gone and Divya is poking at her.

“Can you tell them apart?” She asks and Erica shakes her head, flushing.

“Neither can I,” Divya admits. “Not unless they’re wearing hats.” Erica doesn’t ask questions, turns to go back to her books but then Divya reaches into her bag and pulls out a English book – a literature book!

A Shakespeare book.

“I have a proposal,” Divya says, and Erica recognizes the businesswoman and waits, grinning already.

“You help me with Shakespeare – tutor me, not give me the answers, I’m not like that – and I’ll help you with math or science when you need it.”

Erica raises an eyebrow. “What makes you think I’m bad at math and science?”

Divya just looks at her.

“Ok, ok,” Erica says, laughing. “Deal. What are we going to start with?”

“The Merchant of Venice,” Divya says, wrinkling her nose, and Erica crooks her fingers, beckoning for the book.

 

*

 

They spend a lot of time with each other after that, Divya writing her number on Erica’s arm, prompting her friends, especially Bobby, to raise their eyebrows and nod at the digits.

(“Got a boyfriend?” Her roommate, Annika, asks, and Erica shakes her head, laughing.

“Study buddy.”

“Is he cute?” Annika persists and Erica glances up at her, highlighter hovering over a line in a Louise Glück poem.

“She.”

Annika doesn’t really say anything.)

Erica becomes familiar with Divya’s apartment, how they sit on the couch and tuck their toes under them, Divya wears thick woollen socks and baggy sweaters over leggings when she’s home, but dresses up properly when she’s out and about. Erica catalogues this, and other things – the fact that Divya always wears tights with her dresses, the fact that she drinks tea rather than coffee, how she alphabetizes the books in her bookshelves and how whenever she calls her parents, she speaks a mix of irritated Hindi and English.

And then Erica wonders why she’s cataloguing this, wonders this when it’s late and moonlight is filtering through her window, when Annika is sleeping open mouthed in the bed across the room. Erica will lay in bed and wonder about it, about Divya, about herself.

She remembers, that day in the library, when Divya rubbed the tabletop and had casually told Erica that she thought reclaiming her sexuality was essential.

Her hands trace lines down her body, from her ribs to her hips, one pausing to fondle a nipple, the other dragging down her clit, and Erica flushes, biting her lip to stay quiet.

She _likes_ Divya, likes Divya like she’s never liked anyone before, including the boyfriend that took her virginity.

Erica lays awake for a long time that night, unable to touch herself while remembering Divya’s smile, unable to fall asleep.

 

Erica keeps cataloguing, though, because she can’t help it. She’ll ask something like:

“What does your name mean?” when Divya is scowling down at _Hamlet_ and Divya will say, “Divine.” Like she’s not paying attention, and Erica will stare at her for a while, studying the swoop of Divya’s cheek bone, of her lips, her jaw.

Or: “Why aren’t you eating?” Erica will ask, and Divya will look up and say “It’s Ramadan, I can’t eat ‘til after sundown,” and Erica will make a mental note to not eat until then either.

Then Divya will ask something like, “who was your first celebrity crush?” and Erica will think about it, afraid, for some reason, of giving the wrong answer.

“Leonardo DiCaprio,” she says finally. Divya makes a small sound, as if she expected that, but when Erica looks at her, she’s grinning. “What about yours?” Erica asks, and Divya stretches languidly, her smile wicked.

“Winona Ryder,” she says, and Erica nods, trying to ignore the feeling like something is punching her inside, trying to ignore the thing playing on loop in her head:

_Divya likes girls, Divya likes girls, Divya likes girls._

Once, when Divya is particularly frustrated with _Macbeth_ , Erica pulls up a poem on her laptop and tugs Macbeth away from Divya, not wanting Divya to rip it up.  
“Ok, break time,” she says. “I’ve found a poem you’ll like.”

Divya scowls at her. “That’s not a break. That’s still poetry.”

“It’s about math,” Erica says coaxingly. “It's called Numbers by Mary Cornish. Just listen, ok?”

 

When she’s finished, Erica looks up at Divya, who’s mouth is twisted thoughtfully.

“I just don’t understand why someone needs to write a poem about that,” Divya says finally. “I don’t understand why someone has to – what’s the word – personify math.”

“I don’t think it’s only about math, Div,” Erica says after a minute. “I think it’s about how these conceptions of loss and growth and plenty and remainders are so present in our lives that we’ve come up with scientific terms for them. They’re present in mathematics, certainly, but they’re also present in day to day life.”

Divya shrugs. “I guess.” Her lips half twist in a mocking smile. “You thought I’d like a poem just because it was about math?”

“It was worth a shot,” Erica said, shaking her head. “There _is_ a poem out there for you, I promise.”

Divya shrugs again and tugs _Macbeth_ back to her and Erica lets her, watches her fall away into the play and wonders what other poem she’ll try next.

 

Cam and Tyler hang out with them sometimes, sprawling on Divya’s floor while Erica and Divya perch on the couch. They talk about business, and people Erica doesn’t know, and she usually does her homework. Sometimes Divya tugs her down onto the couch and plays with Erica’s hair, brushing it out, braiding it, pinning it up. Erica lets her, says nothing, and neither do the twins. She wonders if it’s normal.

Sometimes Divya rants and raves, hot headed and angry, mixing all three languages she knows – English, Hindi and Arabic – until Cameron (Erica has learned he’s the nicer twin) will patiently walk Divya through the situation, trying to make peace with whatever it is, and Tyler will tell her to go work on some math until she cools off.

Erica has noticed that, noticed that Divya is fiery and smart and witty and spontaneous until she has a math problem in front of her, and then she calms down, becomes rational and focused and serene, focused on finding the solution. It’s like math and anger can’t coexist in Divya’s life, and she believes, now, that Divya truly does like math. Maybe she doesn’t like it so much as need it; maybe she needs the balance and rationality and order it brings to her life, the way there are rules that always make sense.

Erica thinks about poetry, thinks that it’s the opposite for her: her life is so structured, so ordered, but all it takes is one poem for that structure to fall apart.

Or, Erica realizes, glancing at Divya through her lashes, one hot-tempered Indian girl.

 

*

 

Thanksgiving is coming up – the days are rushing by, and Erica talks at length about her excitement for Thanksgiving, for food other than dining hall food. Divya watches at her and laughs when Erica haltingly asks if her family celebrates Thanksgiving.

“We’re American now,” Divya said, lip half-curling, like she’s sneering at the idea of being American. “Freedom and equality, you know.”

Erica falls silent, watching Divya, because she knows that this is America, that people of color aren’t always welcome, not just here but everywhere else.

(She remembers when she and Divya were walking from Divya’s car to Divya’s apartment, remembers that someone looked at Divya and spat at her, said “ _Go home, brown cunt_.”

Erica had started yelling at him, but Divya had taken her arm and led her away, and Erica had fallen silent until they were inside the apartment, stomping the snow off of their boots and unwinding scarves.

“It’s not worth it,” Divya had told Erica, like she doesn’t care, so Erica had paused watched her, because she knows Divya does care.

“I know I’m brown,” Div had said, pausing to shake out her long black hair. “Just like I know there’s always going to be a _gadhē_ that’s going to try and ruin my day.”

“ _Gadhē_?”

“Asshole,” Divya had clarified. “It’s not worth yelling at them. It’s not like they’re gonna learn.” She had looked at Erica, who had frozen in the act of untangling her scarf, and tugged on it, releasing the woolen knot. “Thanks for sticking up for me, though.”

“Of course,” Erica had said. “You’re my friend.”)

 

From Divya’s face, Erica knows she’s remembering that too, so Erica pokes her in the side. “What foods do you have? Traditional American or…?”

“Kind of a mix,” Divya says, wrinkling her nose. “Mom does the whole Turkey thing, but she also uses a lot of traditional Indian dishes. We’re culinarily confused.”

“Are you excited?” Erica asks, playing with her pencil.

“I guess,” Divya says. She shrugs. “It’s a break, right?”

 

Never the less, the next time Divya picks Erica up (she had insisted on driving Erica after finding out Erica takes the T) they don’t head to her apartment: Divya takes a turn where she’s not supposed to and grins when Erica gives her a questioning look.

“Where are we going?”

“On a date,” Divya jokes, and Erica tries to pretend there aren’t flowers blooming in her stomach, in her heart, at those words.

They park the car and walk, arm in arm, until Divya drags Erica into a burger place called _Mr. Bartley’s_ and shoves her down into a booth, signaling at the waiter.

“What is this place?”

“Mr. Bartley’s,” Divya says. “The best burger place in Boston.”

“Ok….”

“I know how much you hate dining hall food, so I thought maybe we could go out. To eat.”

Erica flushes, heart constricting almost painfully. Divya watches her carefully and Erica beams at her, flushed and confused and stupidly in love.

“This is so kind of you,” she stammers, feeling her cheeks dimple with her smile, and Divya smiles back.

“Of course,” she says, repeating Erica’s words back to her. “You’re my friend.” Then she pauses, scrutinizing Erica. “Plus you’re way too skinny.”

 

 

*

 

Thanksgiving comes and Erica spends it eating food, hanging out with her mom, grandparents and uncle, and missing Divya. She emails Divya a lot, talking about inane things like their cranberry sauce or her childhood room or if Divya is doing her _Romeo and Juliet_ homework. Divya emails her back, talks about their extended family and all of the rules and traditions, how her mom and grandmother insists Divya wear a sari to Thanksgiving dinner and how her mother doesn’t like cranberry sauce. No, she says, she isn’t doing her homework because she doesn’t understand it, and she thinks the priest and the nurse should get together.

Sometimes they instant message, mostly so Erica can help Divya with her homework, or rather, listen to Divya bitch about Shakespeare.

orange-socks: Romeo and Juliet makes perfect sense. Well the story, not the motivation behind it.

stupidmathmajor: the language is too flowery. Why won’t he just say what he means?

orange-socks: Cause it wasn’t done back then, and besides, the language is flowery for a reason. Shakespeare uses the language to set the scene and give information to the viewer – or the reader. Maybe that’s the problem. Shakespeare is meant to be listened to, not read.

stupidmathmajor: You should read it to me sometime. I bet it would make more sense.

orange-socks: J

 

When break ends, Erica drops her stuff off and takes the T to Divya’s apartment, happy to eat leftover Indian food and read _Romeo and Juliet_ to Divya, who just can’t seem to get it.

“Dude,” Divya whines, stabbing her biryani with her fork, “Romeo is so dumb. All he does is whine or disregard everyone’s advice, except no one actually says what they mean too so I kinda get that.”

Erica peers at the section Divya’s gesturing at.

“The Friar is basically telling Romeo to keep it in his pants.” She advises.

“Okay….” Divya drags it out. “But why couldn’t he have just _said_ that?”

“Because Shakespeare is trying to tell us something.”

Divya groans. “I hate it when you say that. What is he trying to say?” Divya is looking at her, so Erica flushes, looks down for a moment.

“Through the Friar, he’s saying that sometimes we don’t always love the person whose right for us, that sometimes we _want_ to love the wrong person.”

Divya is looking at her intently. “But couldn’t he also be saying that it’s important to love who you love, that some people – like the Friar – will get in the way but you have to do it anyway?” Divya pauses. “Even if you don’t know how? Even if you’ve never done it before? Love is love, isn’t it?”

Erica doesn’t think they’re talking about Romeo and Juliet anymore.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “Look how Romeo and Juliet ended.”

“That’s just because the Compagues and the Monulets kept them apart and were stupid about it,” Divya says, waving her hand.

“Capulets and Montagues,” Erica corrects. “Do you think it would have ended differently if their families were more accepting?”

“Yeah,” Divya says. “Or the whole world. Who knows?”

 

*

 

One day Divya asks for a tour of BU, never mind it’s snowing and almost freezing out. Erica shakes her head, explains BU is basically two miles of Comm Ave and there’s really not much to see but Divya gives her a _look,_ so they bundle up and wander around, Erica pointing out the the BU pub, which Divya insists they have to go to, and then they wander down bay state road to look at Erica’s dorm, sparkling in the ice. Divya says brownstone looks nicer than brick and Erica shrugs, tugs her over to Marsh Plaza, points out the chapel and the bird statue that’s supposed to commemorate Martin Luther King, Jr.

They loop around once they’ve finished and Divya tugs Erica into BU’s bookstore, which is Barnes and Noble as opposed to ‘The Coop,’ which is Harvard’s and thus much more pretentious and less enjoyable, according to Divya.

“Your sweatshirts are comfier than ours,” Divya says, fingering the fleece of a hoodie, and Erica tugs her away.

“All college sweatshirts are the same, Div. Besides, it’s overpriced. You can borrow mine if you really want.”

Divya grins and Erica processes what she just said, swallowing at the image of Divya wandering around in her sweatshirt and nothing else – ok, Erica mentally adds some panties, because she doesn’t want to be a total perv.

It might be too late.

“C’mon, I’m tired,” Erica says, and they walk back to Divya’s car.

 

Erica can’t deny it anymore: she _wants_ Divya, wants her to be there when she wakes up, wants to know how she moves in her sleep. And it’s scary.

Not because she doesn’t want to come out, or whatever, not because she doesn’t think her friends and family won’t accept her.

It’s because Erica thinks she might love Divya.

And that’s ridiculous, because she’s known her for three months and she doesn’t even know if Divya likes her back.

There’s no use in denying it anymore – Erica knows that. She has to tell Divya. But how?

Erica turns it over, late at night, when Anneka is snoring and Erica is flushed from images of Divya’s mouth, her tongue, her dainty fingers.

The answer comes unbidden.

 

“Do you know who Rumi is?” Erica asks the next day, when Divya is actually working on math and Erica is at her apartment anyway, her toes tucked under Divya’s thighs, Divya chewing on one of her pens.

“Rumi?” Divya asks absently. Then: “Oh. Yeah. My parents use a different name for him. His Muslim name.”

“Oh,” Erica says. “Well, do you like his poetry?”

“I’ve never heard it,” Divya murmurs, still absent, but then she puts her pen down and looks up at Erica. “Is this another attempt to find a poem I like?”

Erica flushes and opens her book to the Rumi poem she's boomarked, _In the Arc of Your Mallet._

“Just listen.” She says, like she always does.

 

“Oh,” Divya says when Erica is finished, and Erica looks at her, sees something surprised and vulnerable and – she doesn’t know what, but she sees it in Divya’s face, and then the look is gone and Divya shrugs, and smiles.

“That was okay. Because it’s Rumi.”

Erica sighs. _You didn’t get it_. But then –

“Don’t give up,” Divya says, grinning at her. “I’m sure you’ll find a poem I like someday. When we’re old, and in the nursing home together.”

Erica busies herself with shaking her head and looks down at her book, heart thudding, something beautiful and white-hot twisting around her ribs.

 

*

Erica’s in the Harvard Library by herself one day (Divya has class), working on her final paper for her women’s poetry class. Cameron and Tyler find her there, surrounded by books on feminism, 2nd wave feminism poetry and various anthologies.

“Hey there,” Cameron says, pulling up a chair. Tyler copies him. Erica looks up, wondering what they want – her mind is mostly on analyzing this Louise Glück poem and how it will fit into her paper, but the twins look like they want to talk to her. She shuts her book with a sigh, smoothing her face into a smile.

“Hello. Cameron, right? And Tyler?”

They nod.

“So how’d you meet our Divya?” Cameron asks, because Divya is what they have in common, and Erica wonders, for a minute, if they’re trying to be Divya’s big brothers or something.

“At the Thirsty Scholar. She rescued me from someone’s bad pick up line attempt.”

Tyler glances at Cameron, who furrows his brow.

“Was that the start of the quarter?” Erica nods, and both twins break into rueful smiles.

“Ah,” Tyler says. “Some dickhead – excuse me – sophomore got in trouble by creating something called Facemash, rating the, ah, hotness levels of female students. He did it after getting drunk because two girls made fun of his pick up lines. Something like that.”

Erica bursts out laughing. “You’re kidding.” They shake their heads, and she frowns. “That’s…pathetic. And incredibly misogynistic.”

“Not all men who attend Harvard are gentlemen,” Cameron says. “Looks like Divya did you a favor.”

“Sounds like it,” Erica says, nodding.

“I don’t know what he was expecting,” Tyler said. “You’re out of his league, and Divya isn’t into his type.”

“Misogynistic dough-faced nerds?” Erica deadpans.

“Men,” Tyler clarifies.

Erica freezes for a minute, hands trembling on her book, before forcing a smile.

“After hearing what he did, I understand that.”

The twins tilt their heads.  
“So you aren’t a lesbian?” Tyler says, and Erica blushes.

“Ty!” Cameron exclaims. “What he means is, you and Divya spend so much time together, we thought…”

“Oh. _Oh._ ” Erica feels herself turn an even deeper red. “No. We’re not dating. And I’m…I don’t know what I am.”

The silence stretches after that, incredibly awkward, and finally Tyler clears his throat.

“Well, if you want my opinion, you should go for it,” he says. “You make her happy.”

“ _Tyler_ ,” Cameron hisses. “This is none of our business.”

“He’s right,” Erica says coolly. “It’s none of your business.” Then, before she can stop herself: “I’m glad, though. That I make her happy.” She looks away, trying to hide her face. “She makes me pretty happy too.”

 

Later that day, when they’re grabbing dinner at Angora, Divya brings it up.

“Cam and Ty said they ran into you today,” she says, casually, and Erica coughs.

“Oh,” she says, trying to buy time, “yeah. In the library.”

“That’s funny,” Divya says, shaking her head. “Anyway, they mentioned you guys talked a bit. I’m glad you’re getting to know them.”

“Right,” Erica says before she can stop herself, and Divya frowns at her, confused. “I mean – I still can’t tell them apart.”

“Oh,” Divya says, wrinkling her nose. “I think it’s impossible. No worries.”

 

*

BU and Harvard’s schedules are surprisingly the same, which means Erica and Divya hole up in Divya’s apartment, Divya shoving pens into her messy bun and scribbling numbers with a slightly manic expression, Erica rubbing her eyes after pouring over poetry and trying to edit her paper.

Erica finishes finals first, takes the T over to Divy’s apartment to say goodbye. Divya, who looks slightly crazed but as beautiful as ever, hugs her so tightly that Erica can feel Divya’s heartbeat, can feel the warmth of Divya’s skin.

“Take care of yourself,” Divya says and Erica inhales her scent, the mix of jasmine and Argan oil, and laughs a little.

“I’m going to see my family over the holidays, not going to war.”

“Isn’t it the same thing?” Divya counters, and when they separate Divya is smiling, lips full and eyes bright, and Erica kisses her on the cheek and then leaves before she does anything stupider.

 

Winter break is stupidly long, even if it’s welcome. Erica hangs out with her mother and her little brother, Evan, and fends off questions about college (is it hard?), and partying (do people really go to class crossfaded), and her love life.

She talks about Divya too much and misses her too much, and finally her mother looks at her with this knowing smile that makes Erica flush and bite her lip. She resolves to stop talking about Divya after that.

Divya, however, e-mails her constantly and they’re always chatting on AIM, so it’s difficult not to think of her, or talk about her, especially since she’s so present, even when she’s back in New York.

Erica takes Evan to the mall for last minute Christmas shopping. They both end up spending most of the time in the Barnes and Noble, because Evan likes sci-fi and Erica? Erica just likes books.

They run into a girl Evan likes there, someone named Amy, and Erica is torn between teasing Evan and analyzing their interactions. She suggests Evan get Amy a present, but he shrugs her off, says ‘that’s not how it works in middle school.’

But that is how it works in college, or at least it does in Erica’s mind, and that’s how she finds herself frantically trying to hide the package from her mother, wants to unwrap it and then re-wrap it in her room so her mother doesn’t see that, for some reason, Erica has purchased a book of Arabic love poems.

Christmas comes, and they pack up and drive to their grandparent’s house, open presents and pretend to thank Santa very loudly. They do everything loudly, actually, because Erica’s Grandma Maude is hard of hearing in a very frustrating and oblivious way. Erica drives them home, because her mother has had a few Christmas cocktails, and lets Evan operate the gear shift, despite her mother’s objections.

At night, Erica will curl up with the poetry book, tries to pronounce the Arabic words and wrinkles her nose at how she sounds. She wonders how many languages Divya knows, feels slightly ashamed of her very rusty German skills.

 

Break ends and Erica has never been so glad to go back to school, rushing back to her dorm and unpacking before emailing Divya, quickly: _are you back yet?_

Divya’s response is to call her about ten minutes later.

“Come downstairs. I’m in the car.”

Erica brings Divya’s gift with her, wondering if she should hide it behind her back or not, but when she climbs in to the car there’s a gift waiting for her.

“Oh,” Erica says. “Wow. Um, here,” she presses the gift into Divya’s lap and regards the small box on _her_ lap.

“Open it!” Divya says, and Erica tugs on the end of the ribbon until it comes free, opens up the box to find…a green and gold pen.

“I don’t?”

“Give me that, jeez,” Divya says and snatches the pen, uncaps it to reveal a fancy silver tip – _fountain pen_ , Erica realizes.

“It’s for you to write your poetry with.”

“Oh, wow, Div,” Erica says, takes the pen back and cradles it with reverent fingers. “What – what’s it made out of?”

“Resin,” Divya says. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah – yeah, I really do,” Erica smiles helplessly at Divya and sees Divya relax, realizes Divya was worried about whether Erica would like it. “Thanks, Div. I really like it. Okay, your turn.”

Divya tears open the wrapping paper and regards the book, and Erica busies herself with putting the pen back in the box and tying the ribbon around it again so she won’t have to see Divya’s expression, wonders how she can hide her blush.

“Wow,” Divya says slowly. “You – how did you find this?”

Erica looks up at her. Divya’s face is unreadable and Erica bites her lip, tries to keep her voice casual. “Oh, I have my ways.” She pauses, shifts, puts her seat belt on. “Um…Do you like it?”

“I love it,” Divya says. “This was a really thoughtful gift, Erica. Especially since it’s in Arabic.”

“Yeah,” Erica clears her throat. “Um. I was wondering if you could teach me? Just – it has the Arabic and English translations inside, so I thought maybe…”

Divya smiles and Erica lets out a half-sigh, relieved beyond words by the sight of that smile, the smile she had been missing.

“It’s good to see you again,” Erica manages as Divya puts the car into gear, and Divya hums in agreement.

 

*

School starts up again quickly and Erica wonders why she’s taking two poetry classes _and_ a math class at the same time. Divya had convinced her to register for the math, bugged her about GURs and promised to help, and Erica takes her up on her word, takes the T to Divya’s apartment and drops her math book on Divya’s couch.

“I hate you,” she announces, tugging off her beret and unwinding her scarf.

Divya gives her an innocent look, all wide eyes, and Erica glares at her.

“This – I don’t _do_ calculus,” Erica manages.  
“You do now,” Divya says, tugging the book towards her. “It’s easy, Erica. It’s basically measuring the rate of change. Simple.”

“No, algebra was simple – sometimes. As soon as we got to quadratic functions I stopped paying attention. This? This is stupid.”

“Quit whining,” Divya orders, piling her hair on top of her head and sticking a pencil into it haphazardly. “C’mon, I’ll teach you.”

 

January whips by and Erica hardly notices, and then one day in early January Divya is tugging on her braid in an effort to get her attention.  
“Remember that guy who hit on you at the Thirsty Scholar?” she asks and Erica nods, because she does remember him, even if she doesn’t know his name.

“Yeah. He started this thing called thefacebook. It’s really taking off.” Erica twists, sees that Divya is frowning down at _The Crimson_. “Natalie freaking Portman goes to Harvard and someone this guy is more popular than her because of a website.”

Erica tries to digest that, finally shuts her math book and tugs the article from Divya’s hands. Divya hooks her chin over Erica’s shoulder and hums in her ear.

“The Winklevosses were telling me a bit about him,” Erica says finally. “They told me about Facemash.”

“Oh, that.” Erica can hear Divya wrinkle her nose, doesn’t need to try and see it. “Yeah. It was actually sort of impressive. He crashed the servers and got like six months of academic probation of something.”

Divya stretches, leaning against Erica’s back and Erica sighs. “I am not a scratching post,” she reminds Divya, who ignores her.

“I hope he’s not going to be invited to the ball,” Divya says. “Even if this is going to be the next big thing.”

“Ball?” Erica twists, tries to look at Divya. “What ball?”

“Oh, I’ve been meaning to mention it.” Divya yawns. “It’s this – well ok really it’s more like a very fancy party, a gathering for businessmen, and women, to meet each other and rub shoulders and make connections and everyone donates to charity and everyone is richer than God.”

“Sounds fun,” Erica tries to refrain from rolling her eyes, because that doesn’t sound fun at all.

“Exactly,” Divya says. “Which is why I want you to come with me.”

“What?”

“The Winklevosses and I are going because our families are business partners and we’re sort of going to follow suit. But we all get to take a date.”

“So you want to take me?”

“The party is going to be so freaking boring without you,” Divya says, voice earnest, and Erica shifts so they’re facing each other.

“I don’t have anything to wear.”

“You can borrow something of mine,” Divya says. “I have a lot of dresses I outgrew.”

Erica fiddles with her pencil. “You’re serious. You want to take me to rub elbows with high society?”

“Yep,” Divya is grinning. “Oh, and it’s on Valentine’s Day. I’d get you flowers but that’s a little cliché.”

 

*

Erica is not – _not_ – freaking out about their ‘date,’ which isn’t actually a date at all but it _sounds_ a lot like a date and it’s on Valentine’s day and she got Divya a book of freaking love poems, but this isn’t a date, it’s just a friend thing.

Erica explains the entire thing to Annika, pacing back and forth in their room, and Annika advises her to wear a push up bra.

“Or you could just wear a sign that says ‘Fuck me, I’m hot for you,’” Annika adds, as an afterthought.

Erica throws a pillow at her.

 

The night of the dance Erica shaves her legs and armpits and, well, _other things_ and then lugs her heels and make up over to Divya’s – or rather, Divya drives her, because Divya has a violent distrust of the T and lives far away.

They spend the next two hours or so doing each other’s hair and make up, Erica applying dark shadow over Divya’s lids and adding eyeliner and mascara, and then red lipstick. Divya grins at her in the mirror and Erica shivers and looks away.

Divya puts very little make up on Erica, insisting that dramatic isn’t Erica’s style, and then produces a short, light pink dress with complicated straps.

Erica eyes it dubiously.

“C’mon, you’ll look hot,” Divya says. Thankfully she turns around while Erica changes, stays facing away until Erica pokes her in the shoulder.

“Yep,” Divya says after a moment, her eyes very dark. “You look amazing. Just as I thought.”

Erica rolls her eyes and then Divya is fussing with her hair, forcing it to go up and _stay_ up and setting some sort of ornate headband in it.

“What about you? What are you wearing?” Erica demands, and Divya smiles and produces a bright fuchsia dress with gold straps – it’s backless – and Erica flushes and mutters something about getting a glass of water.

They take a taxi to the hotel – the Omni Parker – which Divya pays for and Erica feels guilty about, and Divya lectures her about not forgetting her coat at the coat check.

When they arrive. Erica watches Divya take off her coat and greet people, wonders how in the world Divya is single, isn’t a model, isn’t an actress.

Because Divya looks stunning, of course – the dress falls down to the ground, secured by a gold belt around her waist. The dress is backless to the waist, exposing smooth skin, and Erica feels her mouth go dry. Divya’s hair is up, too, and when she turns back to Erica she links their arms and whispers, “we’re both wearing pink.”

“Happy Valentine’s day I guess,” Erica whispers back. Divya laughs.

 

Cameron and Tyler are possible to tell apart by the girls on their arms – KC and Christy, Erica learns – and they all sort of make nice for a while before the twins drift off to ‘mingle.’

“Shouldn’t you be ‘mingling’, too?” Erica asks, tucking her clutch under her arm in order to do the proper air quotes.

Divya heaves a sigh. “I really don’t _want_ too.”

“I could mingle with you, I guess?”

Divya shakes her head. “You’d be bored to tears. Just – have fun, ok? Come find me later.”

 

*

_“Put your thoughts to sleep,_  
_do not let them cast a shadow_  
_over the moon of your heart._  
_Let go of thinking.”_

—

| 

Rumi  
  
---|---  
  
An hour later, Erica is bored and Divya is nowhere to be found. She taps one of the twins – Tyler, maybe? – on the shoulder and he points at the balcony, where, sure enough, Erica can see a figure in bright pink.

Erica is flushed with wine and from the fact she’s wearing fancy clothes and keeps being asked to dance, plus her feet hurt, so she walks, gingerly, over to the door to the balcony and calls Divya’s name, a little louder than necessary perhaps, opening the door and leaning against it.

Divya turns when Erica calls her name, red mouth quirking up even if her eyes are dark, and Erica goes to her, not paying attention to what her body is doing – suddenly she is beside Divya, and Divya’s hand is warm on her arm, and the door shuts behind her, the light from the party streaming out through the glass, the silence sudden and welcome.

“Hi,” Erica says: Divya is wreathed in moonlight, and she turns to look out over the gardens, letting Erica study her.  
“Hi,” Divya says, not looking at Erica, but she’s rubbing little circles on Erica’s arm, and trails her fingers to Erica’s wrist, to her palm.

Divya’s fuchsia dress is backless, the moonlight turning it a gentler color, the gold straps glittering, and without thinking, Erica puts her hand on Divya’s back, rubs her thumb on Divya’s spine.

Divya inhales sharply but doesn’t move away, and Erica traces Divya’s spine down to base of it, where the fabric starts up again in a small v. It’s cold out, very cold, but Divya’s skin is warm and she’s almost panting, trembling beneath Erica’s touch.

Divya turns to look at her, eyes blazing, and Erica wonders if she’s crossed some sort of line, if Divya is angry with her, but Divya doesn’t move away, just angles her body so she’s facing Erica, back rippling with the movement.

Erica kisses her, hesitantly, the cold and the party and the moonlight falling away at the touch of Divya’s lips on hers.

 

Kissing Divya is – is _so much better_ than what Erica had imagined, but it’s also not what Erica had imagined at all. Divya is gentle, kisses her almost chastely, and then she brings a hand to Erica’s shoulder and a hand to her waist and deepens the kiss, leaning down slightly.

Erica presses her palms against the skin of Divya’s back and returns the kiss, lets Divya take control, and then Divya is nipping at her lower lip, licking the offended spot and suddenly they are really kissing, french kissing, Divya’s tongue hot and warm in her mouth.

“Oh,” Erica says when they break apart.

Divya is panting, and she cups one hand around the back of Erica’s neck, eyes searching her face.

“Was that okay?” Divya asks finally. Her eyes are very dark in the moonlight and Erica nods, throat dry.

“I – I wanted it. Do want it.”

“For a poet, you’re not very good with words,” Divya teases her, lips quirking up, and Erica kisses her to shut her up, tries to slide her thumbs under the straps of Divya’s dress.

“We –” Divya says, stepping away from her. “We should leave, before we do something stupid.”

“Like kiss more?” Erica says, wrapping her arms around herself, wondering if Divya is suddenly regretting this.

“Like have public sex,” Divya says, and tugs Erica back into the ballroom.

 

*

They take a taxi home, struggle to keep their hands off of each other. Divya’s hand is warm on Erica’s knee and Erica has her arms crossed over her chest in order to not touch Divya back, to not tuck her fingers beneath Divya’s skirt.

Somehow they make it through the door of the apartment and lock it, and then Divya has Erica against the wall and is both kissing her and tugging the pins and hand band out of Erica’s hair.

Erica tries to return the sentiment but is too distracted by how Divya tastes, how she feels, and finally Divya pushes her away to undo her own hair, letting it fall like a dark wave down her back.

Erica fists one hand in Divya’s hair, rubs it between her fingers and kisses Divya’s neck, her shoulder, her throat, her jaw. Divya is trying to figure out Erica’s dress, is trying to unzip it without looking at it, and Erica is writhing against her. Her skin feels too tight and she knows that the only cure is Divya’s skin against hers.

Divya finally unzips the dress and Erica steps out of it, kicks off her heels and loops her arms around Divya’s neck.

“Ah,” Divya breathes, hands tracing the lace of Erica’s bra, of her panties. “Wow.”

“You, too,” Erica insists, tugging ineffectively at Divya’s dress, and Divya does something complicated and then it’s off, and – Divya isn’t wearing a bra, and Erica just sort of stares at her.

Divya looks at her from beneath her lashes, her long hair falling half over her face and Erica finally reaches out and cups a breast, reveling in the way Divya shudders.

“Div,” Erica says, whispering like she’s in church, and then she rubs her thumb over the nipple, watches it pebble and does it again.

“Please,” Divya gasps and Erica does it to the other nipple too, pinches them and finally rolls them between her fingers. Divya is making incredible, ridiculous noises and she’s pressed against Erica, trying to take off Erica’s bra but too distracted, and they’re still, somehow, in the entry hall.

“Bed?” Erica asks and Divya nods, manages to unsnap her bra and tosses it aside.

They stumble to the bedroom, Divya pushing Erica down on the bed before taking one of Erica’s nipples in her mouth and Erica whimpers, because that feels so good, and then Divya’s hand is on her belly, and then rubbing the front of her panties.

Erica thrusts her hips up, against Divya’s hand, and Divya is smiling at her, moving to kiss her mouth, her throat, and Erica is kissing her back, one hand on Divya’s back, the other tangled in her long black hair.

“Erica,” Divya murmurs, teasing one of her nipples. “Is this okay? Are we…should we take it slow?”

“No,” Erica almost snarls it, because if Divya stops touching her then she’s going to die. “I want this. Please, Div.”

Divya moves until she’s properly on top of Erica, starts to rock back and forth and it’s the best thing, because her crotch is pressed against Erica’s, and the lace is dragging against her clit. It’s so good and not enough at all and Erica tugs Divya down to kiss her, to play with her breasts and suck bruises on her neck.

“Mine,” Divya is almost growling, as aggressive in bed as she is in everyday life, and Erica gasps and nods, works a finger between them and presses it, hesitantly, against Divya’s panties, against her clit.

“Oh,” Divya whispers against her neck. “Oh, yes, please.”

“These should come off,” Erica says, tugging Divya’s panties down her ass, smoothing her hand over the skin. Divya’s skin is so warm that Erica feels like she’s burning up, like if she keeps touching Divya she’ll burst into flames. She wants to, wants to burn up, and tugs Divya’s panties down her legs determinedly before working a hand between them again and teasing at the soft hairs between Divya’s legs.

“Tease,” Divya says, biting her shoulder and Erica laughs in surprise before hesitanting.

“I don’t…I’ve never done this before.”

She feels Divya’s hands tighten on her body, like Divya is trying to draw her even closer and Erica presses a kiss to Divya’s neck.

“Then let me take care of you first,” Divya says eventually, and begins to kiss her way down Erica’s body, from her neck to her breasts, where her tongue and her teeth make Erica tremble, and then she’s kissing Erica’s stomach, her thighs, and hooking her fingers under Erica’s panties.

Erica lifts her hips up obediently and then Divya’s breath is hot on her cunt, but Divya is teasing her: she drags her fingers along the lips of Erica’s cunt, then begins to rub Erica’s clit, all the while staring at Erica, who is trying to tilt up into the touch.

“Has anyone ever gone down on you?” Divya asks, and Erica finds Divya’s eyes and swallows, nods.

“Did you like it?”

Erica nods. She’s beyond words, is trying not to fizzle outside of her skin even though there’s heat building along her spine.

Divya smiles, and it’s both predatory and affectionate. She’s still stroking Erica’s clit and Erica is struggling to focus, can barely understand when Divya says: “After I’m done, you won’t even remember them.”

Then Divya is – is kissing her cunt, licking along it, sucking on her clit and then thrusting her tongue inside of Erica and Erica is shaking, has her fingers tangled in Divya’s hair, is trying and failing not to thrust her hips up.

Divya spreads Erica’s legs further apart and presses her thumbs on the indent inside each hip, and – Erica swears that Divya is _humming_ even as her tongue does wonderful, terrible, wicked things that leaves Erica shaking, stretched taut like a bow string, her cunt throbbing and pressure building behind her eyes.

Then Divya is working a finger inside of her, is curling it up even as she sucks on Erica’s clit and Erica comes, bursting apart, vision going bright temporarily even as she shakes and shakes.

Divya pets her thigh, and then perches her chin on Erica’s leg and smiles up at her. Erica beckons weakly and Divya goes, kissing up the length of Erica’s body before nuzzling Erica’s neck.

“Your turn,” Erica insists, and Divya is laughing at her without making a sound. She tries to copy what Divya did, drags her fingers along Divya’s cunt and presses down on her clit, and Divya gasps and whimpers and Erica does it again, starts to rub in little circles, some fast, some slow, and Divya shakes and comes, head sagging back down on Erica’s shoulder.

 

“Ah,” Divya says, sometime later. Erica feels like syrup, all loose and wet and slow, but she manags to turn her head to smile at Divya.

“You’re right,” Erica makes herself say. Talking is hard, but she wants Divya to know. “Sex with you is definitely better.”

“The best you’ll ever have, babe,” Divya sighs against Erica’s skin. She turns so she’s spooning Erica, throws a leg over Erica’s and tugs a blanket over them. “Now sleep.”

 

*

In the morning, Erica wakes up to a kiss from Divya, who is holding a book in one hand and looking down at Erica with an unreadable expression.

“Reading in bed?” Erica asks, because she doesn’t know what to say. Does Divya regret what happened last night? Should Erica leave?

Divya gives her a small smile, and then shushes her and begins to read [a poem aloud.](http://www.zocalopublicsquare.org/2009/03/10/by-louise-gluck-2/)

 

 

Divya sets the book aside and Erica stares up at her, confused, wanting to focus on the words ‘that’s how I knew I loved you,’ not quite daring to.

“I loved all the poems you read to me.” Divya admits, ducking her head a little, like she’s ashamed. “But I didn’t want to tell you because I thought you’d stop, and then I realized that I never wanted you to stop. I – I thought you were just being nice, even when you read me the Rumi poem, and then – then your gift, but I wasn’t sure, and…”

Erica has never seen Divya this hesitant, this timid, and she tugs Divya down to kiss her.

“I think I’m in love with you,” Erica confides to her, unable to keep from smiling. Divya touches one of her dimples absently before she processes the words; then her eyes go wide.

“I think I’m in love with you, too,” Divya is smiling shyly and Erica beams up at her, sits up and presses a kiss to the corner of Divya’s mouth.

“Cam and Tyler are going to be thrilled,” Divya mutters, and Erica laughs.

“They told me to ‘go for it’ when I ran into them at the library,” she admits, running her fingers up Divya’s spine.

“I’m glad you took their advice,” Divya says and yawns. Her voice is still husky from sleep and it makes Erica shiver, makes her press a kiss to Divya’s neck.

“Me too,” Erica says. Then: “Come back to bed, love.”

Divya lays down next to her and snuggles into her side and Erica sighs against her hair and thinks about all the time they have, thinks about how no words will be able to explain her Divya, how no poem will capture the scent of Divya’s hair and the way she smiles in her sleep.

That’s fine, Erica decides as she drops off to sleep. She wants to keep those secret, wonderful details to herself.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Gadhē means asshole in Hindi.  
> \- I don’t know if real life Divya Narendra is Muslim but here (s)he is, and I don’t know anything about his family. (But for the record Ramadan was from October 26th to November 26th in 2003.) I don’t know if he really does speak Arabic, Hindi and English.  
> \- Biryanti is a traditional Indian rice, veggie, and meat dish.  
> \- Erica’s AIM name is a reference to her character in Moogle’s highschool au.  
> \- Divya really was an applied mathematics major and got an almost perfect score on his SAT.  
> \- Thank God and also Jesus for Annie, because she provided all of the Boston knowledge here. These are all real places, including the lovely tidbits about BU. Mr. Bartley’s is the Burger place the twins are at in TSN and Angora is a restaurant that was in one of the Facemash shots. Similarly, the Thirsty Scholar is the bar that Erica dumps Mark in. The Omni Parker is a fancy shmancy hotel in Boston that the military ball is held at. The only inaccuracies in this fic are: the Thirty Scholar doesn’t actually serve raw oysters and it’s not as easy to get from Harvard to BU as I’ve implied. You have to take the T and the Bus.  
> \- [This](http://www.amazon.com/Arabian-Love-Poems-English-Continents/dp/0894108816/ref=pd_ybh_3) is the book Erica got Divya, [this](http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/21YT4K-reKL.jpg) is the pen Divya got Erica.  
> \- [This](http://www.celebs.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/10/freida-pinto-pleated-pink-gown.jpg) is the front of Divya’s dress, [this](http://www.echicool.com/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/650x650/a937f5813d78f1915292eede43e739a4/f/r/freida_pinto_sexy_fuchsia_evening_dress_black_gold_world_premiere_ecc2102_6_.jpg) is the back and [this](http://www2.pictures.stylebistro.com/pc/Rooney+Mara+Dresses+Skirts+Cocktail+Dress+lRa-2H45tD_l.jpg) is Erica’s dress.
> 
> visit me on [tumblr!](http://marnz.tumblr.com/) prompts welcome.


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